


Of Artists and Attics

by Rebel_Atar



Series: Attic Verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Maybe more - Freeform, that fic where everyone lives together in a completely implausible fashion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebel_Atar/pseuds/Rebel_Atar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les amis live together, more or less. Grantaire is too good at hiding things and Courfeyrac is becoming progressively more paranoid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

It had been a long day of lectures and Courfeyrac was exhausted. He shut the door of the house behind him and, dragging his feet, wandered into the living room, dropping his bag and collapsing onto the sofa.

“Rough day?”

The noise Courfeyrac made was pitched slightly higher than was dignified. “Was that really necessary R?”

Grantaire, perched on the kitchen counter sipping significantly spiked coffee, offered a lopsided grin. “Anything that makes you scream like a six year old girl is always necessary,” he drawled.

Courfeyrac huffed in long suffering annoyance “What are you doing here?” He frowned a moment and added “Again. Why are you always here.”

He had never quite managed to fathom out the artist. Friends they may be but Grantaire played things close to the vest and was, for some reason, always lurking around the corner when Courfeyrac least expected him. It didn’t matter what time or day or night it was, nor did it matter that this was not his flat, Grantaire would suddenly appear, usually at the exact moment to get the most embarrassing reaction. It was beginning to make him paranoid. Scratch that it was definitely making him paranoid. For someone as loud as Grantaire was he walked like a cat.

When his only reply was a smirk behind the rim of a coffee cup his brow furrowed further. “Grantaire...” he said with a growing suspicion.

“Yes?”

“Is that our coffee?”

“That rather depends on your definition of the word ‘our’. For instance it is currently my coffee,” he said cheekily.

Courfeyrac sighed, and massaged his temples. Sometimes the other man was simply aggravating. “Is it our coffee, as in coffee belonging to the members of this household, as in coffee I probably bought?”

“Ah, in that case yes, yes it is.” He took another sip.

“Why is it you’re always drinking all my coffee?” Courfeyrac whined, pouting.

“Why is it your coffee is always here for me to drink?” The artist smirked.

“Grantaire,” he said in a warning tone. It really had been a very long day.

The cynic held up his paint stained hands in a placating motion. “Hey. I am more than happy to replace it and, more to the point, I am more than happy to share.” He slid off the counter, padded over to Courfeyrac and held out the coffee mug. “Here, you look like you could use this more than me.”

“You don’t mind?”

“You say that like I can’t make more,” he smirked and wiggled his eyebrows somewhat ridiculously.

Courfeyrac accepted the mug with a smile and held it in his hands for a moment to heat them up a little. He took a gulp of the coffee and ended up coughing and spluttering. “Fuck, R! How much is in this?”

“Enough.”

“Jesus Christ. Would you like some coffee with your booze?”

“I can always take it back?” The artist threatened, raising an eyebrow.

Courfeyrac clutched the mug to his chest. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll take your coffee flavoured booze thanks,” he took another gulp, wincing. The damn stuff burned like nothing else but he could already feel the warmth in his stomach beginning to leech the stress from his body. Courfeyrac sighed and sank back into the couch cushions.

“Better?” Asked Grantaire.

The artist’s voice was surprisingly close to his head and he looked over to see he was now perched on the arm of the sofa. Damn teleporting artists. “Yeah. Thanks man”

“S’fine, don’t worry about it,” he shrugged.

Courfeyrac watched as the artist slunk off to make more of his ‘coffee’.

Grantaire was an odd addition to their group of friends. He didn’t really fit at first glance. He had been dragged kicking and screaming into the group by Bahorel, and at least one of those literally. He still liked to act like he was an outsider but had slowly managed to worm his way into their hearts. He’d also been around a lot more lately. Courfeyrac frowned at the thought. An awful lot more lately.

“Hey.” A long paint smudged finger prodded him between the eyebrows. “No more frowning. Relax Courf. Whatever it is can fuck off for a while, yeah?” Grantaire smiled lopsidedly and Courfeyrac couldn’t help but smile back.

“Yeah. You’d tell us if something was wrong, wouldn’t you R?”

The cynic looked perplexed for a moment. “I really feel like I should be asking you that question considering how easily you accepted my coffee.” Grantaire shrugged, feeling a little awkward. “If I was in serious trouble one of you would know at the very least.” It was technically true. It was, however, not exactly what Courfeyrac had meant and he felt a guilty for not being entirely honest with him.

“I’m allowed to indulge a little after a bad day, something I’m sure you of all people understand, and good. Don’t think I’m above setting Combeferre or Jehan on you.”

“It’s not nice to threaten me with our friends and there is absolutely _no_ need to set Combeferre on me.” This at least was entirely true.

Courfeyrac looked up at the sound of the front door. Shortly after Enjolras walked into the living room.

“Good day Enjy?” He said, getting up from the sofa.

“It was fine, and I’ve told you close to a hundred times not to call me that.” The blond dumped his bag on the coffee table and shrugged off his coat. “Is anyone else in?”

“I think it’s probably closer to a thousand at this point and yeah, R is.” He turned around and the artist had vanished. “That’s odd, I swear he was here a minute ago.” He scratched his head in confusion.

“No matter, there are some things I need to discuss with you before the meeting.” He paused, brow wrinkled in confusion before leaning down to smell the coffee mug in Courfeyrac’s outstretched hand. He straightened up and raised an eyebrow. “Courfeyrac?”

“Yes.”

“Is there alcohol in your coffee?”

“Ah.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is sneaky and sleepy

Unknown to Courfeyrac, Grantaire had made himself scarce the moment Enjolras entered the flat. He only ever seemed to end up in an argument with the blond. While some days it was utterly compelling to watch his Apollo filled with righteous revolutionary fire, some days he just couldn’t handle the fallout of Enjolras’ ire. This was one of the latter days.

Truth be told the artist hadn’t been feeling very well at all. After rushing the stairs to the next floor he stopped to catch his breath before climbing up his own little ladder to the attic. His attic, his sanctuary.

It wasn’t much, and certainly a little rough around the edges, not unlike the artist himself. It had one window with blinds and the ceiling beams were uncovered. The walls were bare except for where they were paint splattered, and stacked against them were Grantaire’s paintings, finished and unfinished. The floor was littered with paint and various other art supplies, empty and half empty bottles, various mugs filled with paintbrushes or paint dirtied water. It was a mess but it was home.

Grantaire pulled a bottle of rum from beneath an easel and curled up under the mess of covers on his futon to lazily finish a sketch. He wasn’t quite sure how Courfeyrac hadn’t worked out that he lived in the same house yet but he intended to exploit his friend’s lack of knowledge for as long as possible. Combeferre knew he was here, Joly knew, he was pretty sure Enjolras knew unless he was completely oblivious and ‘Ferre was even better at keeping secrets than he had assumed. He didn’t think Jehan or Bahorel had worked it out yet but they were both usually preoccupied with other things. It didn’t really matter who knew, other than Courfeyrac, it wasn’t like any of them came up here anyway.

His head was pounding, it had been all day. At first he thought he was hungover but the pain was just as strong now as when he woke up and his usual ‘hair of the dog’ remedy wasn’t making any difference. It was, however, making him care about the pain less.

He felt like doing close to nothing. Life had been pretty turmoiled for him the past few months and he didn’t much want to think on it. Better to drown it in alcohol and forget. This was the way he solved all his problems. Combeferre seemed to think he should actually talk about things but that just made it more difficult to ignore how fucked up his life was.

Grantaire shivered where he sat, partially propped against the wall, and pulled the covers closer around him. He wasn’t sure how well insulated the attic was. Oh the floor was probably fine because it was everyone else's ceiling but the exposed roof beams meant that there was nothing in his ceiling and he wasn’t holding his breath over the state of the walls either.

He laid aside his sketchbook and sighed, he wasn’t making any reasonable progress anyway. Headaches were awful for concentration and inspiration alike. It was that unfortunate point in the day where it was really too early to reasonably go to bed but if he had a nap he’d end up being awake all night. He should probably have something to eat that wasn’t junk food as well but he wasn’t sure he was up to heading back downstairs in case Enjolras was still lurking about.

  
That wasn’t fair really. Enjolras couldn’t lurk if he tried. Lurking implied that he was trying not to be noticed. Enjolras’ presence demanded attention the moment he walked in the room whether he wanted it or not. It was Grantaire that lurked. Regardless of this he was staying put.

The artist pulled himself reluctantly out of bed to cross the room to where he had a mini fridge and some stacking drawers filled with snacks. He grabbed some cheese strings and a bag of doritos and retreated back to the futon. It wasn’t even slightly a proper meal but it would stave off hunger until it was safe to go downstairs again. He really wasn’t feeling up to having a debate or making an arse of himself which were pretty much the only options for him when Enjolras was about.

He shivered again and took another pull of rum to ward off the cold. Grantaire knew that wasn’t how alcohol worked. Technically his body temperature would get lower. He’d feel warmer which was all that mattered to him at the moment. Curse the weather. He finished off the snacks and curled up under the covers. His head still pounded and now he was cold.

He could feel tiredness creeping up on him. A stiffness in the neck and shoulders, a heaviness to his head and eyes, energy leeched from his limbs. It felt as though all he’d done over the past couple of days was sleep but for some reason his body seemed to need it. Maybe he would have a nap after all.

Grantaire took several deep swallows of rum. He was feeling a little bit of a buzz and hoped that this little bit extra would be enough to pull him down into deep sleep. Too often he drifted from dream to dream without any real rest. Maybe that was why he was so tired lately. He yawned and cuddled down, safe and hopefully soon warm in his futon. He pulled his phone close by just in case anyone called him, not that they normally did, and allowed himself to finally drift off to sleep.


	3. Chapter Three

Grantaire awoke to a killer hangover. His head was pounding, his stomach reeling. He groaned and pulled the covers over his head. He really felt awful. He looked blearily at the clock, cursed the fact that it wasn’t even 7am yet, rolled over and went back to sleep. It was not long after that he began to shiver again.

 

The next time he awoke he was struck by the realisation that this was not a hangover. Dear gods this was not a hangover. He was shivering head to foot, and sweating as well. His body kept leaping the entire thermometer from freezing to burning. Though it made no difference to the amount he was shivering.

 

Feeling incredibly sorry for himself he shakily climbed down his ladder and trekked into the small kitchen that was on the second floor. He fixed himself some hot tea and an instant porridge pot hoping that they would heat him up a bit. The tea was soothing and warming though he really wished he’d made it a lot sweeter. It was strange, normally he liked his tea just the way he had made it, black with two sugars. His stomach made a gurgling noise at the addition of the tea. Grantaire looked down at it. It hadn’t exactly been a happy noise. The artist managed three spoonfuls of the porridge before his stomach revolted. He bent over the sink and heaved.

 

After what felt like hours of being messily sick his body finally abated. He leant against the counter, trying to catch his breath and stop shaking for a moment. Once he managed to get himself a little more under control he cleaned up the sink. It wasn’t fair to leave it like that for someone else.

 

As he clearly wasn’t up to eating anything Grantaire grabbed some bottles of water from the fridge and a bucket before retreating back to his attic. He got back into bed and curled up in a ball of misery and death, as he was quite clearly dying. At least as far as he was concerned.

  


Downstairs Courfeyrac was attempting to make breakfast. Attempting because he was beginning to get a little paranoid about Grantaire showing up when he least expected it. The walk from his bedroom to the kitchen had been slowed significantly by him looking around every doorway and in every shadowed corner. Enjolras walked into the kitchen to find him peering under the breakfast bar.

 

“What exactly are you doing.”

 

Courfeyrac, having already checked the living room and the hall had not been expecting anyone to show up behind him, jumped hitting his head off the underside of the counter. He whirled around rubbing his head. “Don’t do that!”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Sneak up on me. It’s bad enough that Grantaire does it without you starting too.” Said Courfeyrac.

“I did not sneak up on you. I did not sneak anywhere. I walked, _normally_ , from my bedroom, down the stairs and into the kitchen. Don’t blame me for your paranoia getting the best of you.” Huffed Enjolras.

 

“I do not have paranoia.”

 

“Courfeyrac you just looked in the oven. Somewhere I am certain that R will not fit.”

 

Courfeyrac sheepishly closed the oven door. “I guess he’s not here today.” He said, relaxing visibly.

 

“Courf it it’s only just gone ten. I don’t think Grantaire even knows what the world looks like before noon. He’s certainly not going to be skulking about this early.” Said Enjolras.

 

Courfeyrac tensed a little again. It looked as though he was safe for at least a couple of hours but after that who knew.

 

“You don’t think you’re being a touch melodramatic about this, no?” Asked Enjolras.

 

Courfeyrac just looked at him before setting about getting himself some cereal.

 

Joly bounced in with a laptop under his arm and a blanket thrown over his shoulder. “Morning!”

He sat himself down on the couch and set up the laptop in front of him, arranging the cushions and his blanket into what he deemed the comfiest configuration.

 

“Morning, Joly. I thought you would be have been studying today?” Said Enjolras.

 

Joly shook his head. “It’s a reading week but the topic is infectious disease. I’ve already read everything on the list about three times,” he grinned, “So I’m going to sit through here where I can socialise a little more and play the sims instead.”

 

“Is that really the best idea?” Said Combeferre, coming in from the hallway. “I’ve seen what happens when you play the sims.”

 

Enjolras looked over at them both, confusion clear on his face.

 

Combeferre sighed. “Joly gets a little bored of his sims constant needs and effectively becomes Loki. I believe last time it went along the lines of: ‘No puny mortals you have asked for too much. I have deleted you bathroom and there are no doors in your house muahahahahahaha.’” Each word of this and syllable of laughter was delivered with complete deadpan and a look at Joly over the top of his glasses.

 

Joly blushed, sinking into the couch as Enjolras began to lecture him on the fact that he should be treating his sims with benevolence and equality.

 

Bahorel leant against the door frame, yawning. He was wearing boxer shorts that were ripped up the outside of each thigh, it was the only way he’d been able to make them fit him.

 

Joly frowned at him and interrupted Enjolras in his tirade. “Those cannot possibly be comfortable.”

 

“You try finding something that fits my legs.” He said with a shrug.

 

“Ummm briefs? Boxer briefs? Something that is actually made of a stretchy material?”

 

“A skirt?” Suggested Courfeyrac, smirking.

 

“You couldnt handle me in a skirt Courfeyrac." Said Bahorel.

 

“Actually I think a skirt would probably make it easier to _handle_ you”

 

“Do either of you have an off switch?” Said Enjolras, wholly exasperated.

 

“Sorry Enjy!” They said, in unison. He made a face at the abbreviation but really nothing ever made those two stop and everyone had started calling him that at this point.

 

Combeferre smiled fondly at their actions and went to put the coffee machine on.


	4. Chapter Four

Jehan found themself gently awoken by the smell of coffee wafting through the house. They sighed and stretched and snuggled into their pillow. Their sleep had been filled with pleasant and perplexing dreams. They pulled their dream journal and pen from the bedside table and scribbled down as much as they could remember.

 

Jehan yawned, put the journal back when they were done and got up to go get the coffee that had tempted them awake.

 

As Jehan padded softly into the kitchen they were stopped by Bahorel. 

 

“Are you wearing like a 19th century night shirt?” He asked.

 

“Its comfy and it’s just in the style of one.” They responded.

 

“Well I’d be worried if you were actually wearing something over a hundred years old Jehan.”

 

“Why? I think that would be lovely.” 

 

Bahorel huffed a laugh and stepped out the way to let Jehan through.

 

“I smelt coffee is there any left?” Said Jehan.

 

“Right here.” Said Combeferre holding up the coffee pot. “Enough for you then I’ll put another batch on.”

 

“Oh thanks, that’s great.”

 

“What are your plans for the day Jehan?” Asked Combeferre.

 

“I’m going to curl up in the study with some of my poetry books. I’m trying to give villanelles a go at the moment but they are a little tricky to get the hang of.” They frowned slightly in mild frustration.

 

“Well I’m sure you’ll conquer them in time.” Combeferre smiled at them.

 

“Thank you 'Ferre, I’m sure I will. What’s everyone else doing?”

 

“I’m going to make sure Joly isn’t abusing the basic human rights of his sims,” said Enjolras, with a pointed look toward the med student. Joly pulled a blanket over his head in response.

 

“I have some studying to do,” said Combeferre. “Unlike Joly I haven’t already read this terms entire curriculum.”

 

“Only infectious disease,” piped up Joly from beneath his blanket. “Not the whole curriculum.”

 

“Mhmm,” said Combeferre.

 

“I’m going to eat my own weight in breakfast and then I’m going to hit the gym,” said Bahorel.

 

“Isn’t one part of that counter productive,” asked Courfeyrac.

 

“You need fuel to workout and protein if you’re going to build muscle which is what I’m doing.”

 

“What about you Courf?” Said Jehan behind a mug of coffee.

 

“I’m going to avoid Grantaire.”

 

Jehan frowned. “That’s not very nice, R’s lovely.”

 

“He’d be fine if he would stop sneaking up on me. I swear he’s developed invisibility or teleportation or _both_ and just hasn’t told anyone.”

 

Jehan giggled. “Oh that would be just like Grantaire.”

 

“Yes it would. Develop the most infuriating talents, not tell us and use them for pranks.” Said Enjolras, not entirely under his breath. The Amis looked at him, then looked at each other, then collectively decided not to go there. Well, all except Jehan.

 

“He is very talented isn’t he.” Said Jehan.

 

“I wouldn’t know. He never shows anyone his work unless he’s using it to make sarcastic signs at a protest. Or t-shirts. Or badges.”

 

“I quite liked the badges.” Murmured Bahorel. Jehan shot him a look that read be quiet or _else_ and the boxer quickly went back to cooking his breakfast.

 

“He’s very clever though, isn’t he Enj.” Prompted Jehan. 

 

“Infuriatingly clever. He speaks three languages can read two more and uses all of them to argue with me. He could be doing so much more.” He sighed. “He thinks he’s useless but he’s good at I think actually everything,” he said.

 

Jehan giggled to themselves, happy with some progress made. Combeferre nudged them with his elbow and gave them a look that clearly that read 'must you?' Jehan just smiled and shrugged.

 

After a quick breakfast Jehan took another mug of coffee and some poetry books upstairs to the study. They were hoping they could add to some of the scrolling writing on walls with anything new they came up with. They had just went into the open plan kitchenette for a moment when they were hit by the sickly smell of vomit. That couldn’t be good.

 

Jehan hurried down the stairs and back into the actual kitchen. “Um I don’t mean to pry but has anyone been sick this morning?” There was a chorus of no.

 

“Ah. Hmm ok.” The poet picked at their cuticles, a nervous habit they had never been able to shake.

 

“Why what’s wrong Jehan?” Asked Enjolras a little worried.

 

“Well the room upstairs smells like vomit and if none of you have been sick and I know I haven’t been.” They trailed off.

 

Enjolras looked around the room and did a quick mental headcount. “You think Grantaire? He could just be hungover Jehan.”

 

“Wait I thought you said Grantaire wouldn’t be here until after noon.” Courfeyrac looked accusingly at Enjolras.

 

“No I said he probably wouldn’t be awake until after noon.” 

 

“That’s the same thing!” 

 

“No, Courfeyrac, it really isn’t.” Said Enjolras with some confusion.

 

"Courf,” asked Combeferre, “Where do you think Grantaire goes to sleep?"

 

"... Don't make me answer that."

 

“The attic Courf. He sleeps in the attic. He lives in it too for that matter.”

 

"Wait, we have an attic?"

 

“Yes Courfeyrac.”

 

“Wait, Grantaire lives with us?”

 

Combeferre buried his head in his hands in despair while the rest of them tried quite hard to keep from laughing. “Yes, Courfeyrac. Grantaire lives with us.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since the middle of summer.” Said Combeferre.

 

“Well how did that happen?” Asked Courfeyrac.

 

Combeferre just sighed in exasperation. 

 

“Actually that’s a rather good question 'Ferre,” said Enjolras, “Because as far as I’m aware Grantaire just showed up one day and you said it was alright and everything had already been sorted out.” He crossed his arms.

 

Combeferre looked guiltily sheepish. “Grantaire was looking for a new place to stay. Considering most of us already live here and there was space in the attic it seemed like the logical solution. If you want any more details then that I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Grantaire.” It wasn't his place to reveal the circumstances that he'd found Grantaire in over the summer.

 

Enjolras looked at his best friend with suspicion.

 

“Um,” said Jehan, “If I can just interrupt this. R normally doesn’t get sick when he has hangovers. He usually eats more the morning after actually.”

 

“Yeah that’s right. He eats more than me sometimes.” Said Bahorel

 

“I can go and check on him?” Said Joly, eager to get out from Enjolras’ gaze in regards to his treatment of his sims. “Just to make sure it isn’t anything serious.”

 

“Do you mind?” Asked Jehan. “I just don’t like disturbing him. He usually stays up there when he wants some peace.”

 

“It’s fine Jehan.” Joly smiled and got up, setting his laptop on the coffee table. “Don’t worry about it.”


	5. Chapter Five

Joly hoped that Grantaire just had a worse hangover than he normally suffered from. The artist was a nightmare to deal with when he was actually ill. He hurried up the stairs and looked up the ladder into the attic.

 

“R! You up there?” He shouted up, but there was no answer. He scratched his head before shrugging and heading up the ladder. He barely got his head above the open hatch door when he was hit by the sickly almost sweet scent of fever sweat and the acrid stench of vomit. Joly immediately descended back down the steps and rushed into his room as quickly as he could.

 

Grantaire was ill. Grantaire was _actually_ ill.

 

He scrubbed his hands with sanitiser and donned latex gloves and a surgical mask. Grabbing spares in case he needed them along with his medical books. It looked like he was going to be getting a refresher in infectious disease anyway.

 

He picked up his stethoscope and industrial sized first aid kit as well as a bag he filled with bottles and pills and things he hoped would help.

 

Well prepared he trekked back up to the attic. He had never been in Grantaire’s attic before, and he hadn’t stayed long enough to look around when he had stuck his head in earlier. Now as he looked around he was mesmerised.

 

The place was covered in canvasses, some finished, some not. All of them beautiful. The walls had odd patterns and scribbles on them, odd phrases or thoughts here and there. The floor was littered with books. Joly picked one up and flicked through it. It was on anarchist philosophy by Bakunin, Grantaire had annotated it pretty much to death from the looks of things arguing with Bakunin himself. Joly noted that he’d heard Grantaire put forward a couple of those arguments at the last meeting.

Was this how he practised for debating with Enjolras. He flicked through another couple of books, finding them to be the same as the last. He felt overwhelmed between the paintings and the eloquence of Grantaire’s notes he could not believe what he was seeing. Grantaire had always declared himself ignorant, talentless.

 

“Oh my god. Oh. My. _God._ ” He was suddenly filled with an odd combination of pride and irritation at the apparently brilliant artist.

“Grantaire! How dare you keep this hidden you have so much talent what is all this!” He knelt on the futon and shook Grantaire. “Why didn’t you tell us _you little shit_!”

 

Grantaire made an unhappy sound as he was shaken awake.

“Mmmm noise? Joly? Why, Joly? No Joly. More sleep.”  He was visibly shivering as he curled back up into a ball.

 

“Oh dear you really are _really_ unwell. Stay still for a moment and let me take your temperature.”

Grantaire moaned, turned away and tried to go back to sleep.

 

“R this is really for your own good,” said Joly turning him back over, “Now keep still and keep this in your mouth for a moment will you.” He said shoving a thermometer in Grantaire's mouth.

 

He put the stethoscope in his ears and breathed on the metal end before placing it on Grantaire's chest. “Breathe deeply please.”

 

Grantaire rolled his eyes and took a few deep breaths

 

“Well your breathing’s fine which is good,” Joly took the thermometer from R’s mouth and shook it off before checking it, eyebrows raising. He placed the back of his hand against the artist’s forehead, “You’re running a pretty bad fever R. How many times have you been sick this morning?”

 

“Three.”

“Anything happen before that?

 

“Tried to eat, went to the bathroom, once up here, woke me up, had a bucket though.” He croaked out, throat sore from heaving earlier and still not fully awake.

 

“What did you try eating?” Joly hoped he hadn’t been stupid enough to try and have leftover take out or a fry up, his usual hungover fare.

 

“Tea, porridge pot.”

 

Joly nodded, gentle foods that shouldn't really have caused this. “What have you eaten since?” He asked.

 

“Nothing, just water.”

 

Joly sighed, “You really need to eat R.”

 

“No. Be sick again.” Grantaire looked up at him from the futon, eyes large and pleading.

 

Joly sighed again, Grantaire wasn't even arguing with him properly he felt that bad. “Your body needs fuel to fight the illness. Rest for just now, I'll see if i can get you some soup or something.”

He stood up and noticed for the first time that there appeared to be wood flooring which he definitely didn't remember Combeferre organising being put in.

 

Joly looked down, “Did you put in a floor?” Grantaire just groaned in response. “Oh my god.” Said Joly.

 

He took the bucket from next to the futon and headed downstairs. He left the first aid kit and some alka seltzer up with Grantaire but took the rest of his supplies back with him. He binned his gloves and mask. He had more and these were contaminated now. Time to talk to the others.


	6. Chapter 6

“Well I have good news and bad news.” Joly announced as he traipsed back into the living room.

 

“What’s the bad news?” Asked Jehan. They were picking at their cuticles again and Joly slapped their wrist with his free hand. Jehan pouted.

 

“Grantaire is definitely, _definitely_ , ill.” He said brandishing the bucket.

 

“Oh dear,” said Combeferre, “What’s the good news?”

 

“He appears to have put in a floor in the attic.” Joly smiled at the look of surprise on the faces of his house mates and went to empty and clean out the bucket in the bathroom.

 

“Wait,” Bahorel shouted through, “He what?”

 

“There is flooring in the attic,” Joly shouted as he came back through. “Which I don’t remember from when we moved in so unless one of you organised it Grantaire has put it in himself.”

 

“How in the hell did he manage that without any of us noticing.” Asked Bahorel.

 

“Super powers, told you.” Said Courfeyrac, unhelpfully.

 

“Oh do be quiet Courfeyrac,” said Jehan “How bad is he Joly?”

 

“He’s been sick three times this morning, including not being able to keep food down. He’s shivering and he has a fever. I think a headache too. He either groaned or flinched every time I spoke to him.”

 

“Has he eaten since being sick?” Asked Combeferre.

 

“Of course not he’s Grantaire,” sighed Joly completely exasperated at the artist. “The man has never known what’s good for him which reminds me of the other thing.”

 

“What other thing?” Inquired Enjolras, a frown on his face, both worried for Grantaire’s health and worried at what he might have done now.

 

“You need to come back up to the attic with me. All of you.” Joly rummaged through the cupboards finding some cuppa soup. It wasn’t fantastically nutritious but it would do until he went to the shops to get something more wholesome.

 

“What? Joly, I don’t think we’ll all fit.” The blond said in an attempt to be reasonable.

 

“Yes we will. Although Bahorel’s going to have to duck a little, but I absolutely cannot let any of you go a minute longer without seeing what’s up there.”

 

“It's that bad? What has he done besides put in a floor.”

 

“Turned it into a BDSM, er what do you call a dungeon that’s above everything instead of below it.” Said Courfeyrac with a grin.

 

“Still a dungeon.” Said Joly

 

“That wasn’t a no.”

 

Joly rolled his eyes “ _No,_ Courfeyrac, he hasn’t turned it into a _dungeon_.” He bounced a little on the balls of his feet as he waited for the kettle to boil. “Oh just trust me and come up will you.”

 

He poured the water into the mug and stirred until the chicken and vegetable soup was smooth and vaguely palatable smelling. It would have to do. “Right, come on then.”

He led them all up the stairs and then up the ladder which was quite precarious now that he had a bucket hung over one arm and a mug of soup in his other hand. Fortunately he made it without any incidents.

 

“R? I brought you a cuppa soup.” He called out as finally got up through the trapdoor enough to unload things onto the floor and pull himself up properly.

 

“No.” Said the artist from a pile of covers.

 

“Grantaire.”

 

“No.”

 

“You need to have something more than just water.”

 

“No.”

 

“ _Yes._ ” Said Combeferre with finality. He and the others had climbed up whilst Grantaire and Joly argued and now looked around his attic with curiosity. Grantaire rolled over, caught sight of everyone, and buried his head under a pillow.

 

“Why are you all here?” Was the muffled question that floated out from the futon.

 

“We wanted to see how you were feeling.” Said Jehan softly.

 

“Joly said your attic was amazing and we needed to see it.” Said Bahorel

 

“It’s not.”

 

“ _Yes it is._ ”

 

“I wanted to see if you really did live up here without me noticing for the past few months.” Said Courfeyrac.

 

Grantaire lifted the pillow off of his head and looked at him. “Well that takes half the fun out of sneaking up on you.”

 

“Does that mean you’ll stop.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“Is that a fridge?” Asked Bahorel with mounting incredulity as tried to bend enough so that he wasn’t constantly scraping his head on the roof beams.

 

“Oh my god when did you get a fridge?” Said Jehan.

 

Joly clambered over several canvases to take a look at it. Grantaire hid himself under a pillow again. “Oh my god R why is there only beer and cheese strings in here?”

 

“There’s more food in the wheely thingy.” He said defensively.

 

“What wheely thingy?”

 

Jehan who had been staring at various winding phrases scrawled on the wall, looked down and shifted a couple of paintings. “Oh here there’s like a storage basket unit behind this canvas.”

 

Joly leant over to examine it. “Grantaire this is filled with crisps and chocolate, nuts and cereal bars. For fucks sake R, you can’t live on junk food alone.”

 

“Watch me.”

 

Combeferre who had spent sometime looking around the room kept having his eyes drawn back to the wood beneath his feet. “I can’t believe you put a floor in without me noticing, did you do this yourself?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“That’s a yes then.”

 

“Look at these books.” Said Joly waving one in Jehan’s face. “He argues with the authors!”

Grantaire groaned and pulled the covers over his head as well. Combeferre picked up a book and raised an eyebrow at the annotations. Unnoticed at the back of them all Enjolras did the same. He’d been quiet so far, too busy looking around at Grantaire’s creations in shock and marvel. He knew the man was an artist but why had he hidden such talents.

 

“Look.” Said Grantaire poking his head out. “Will you please fuck off. _I’m dying._ Get out of my space.”

 

Joly strode over and manhandled him into a sitting position while Grantaire flailed at him to stop. He handed him the mug of soup and then set about propping him up with pillows. “Eat. All of it. I mean it R.” Joly sighed. “And here I cleaned out your bucket but I brought it back in case you need it again.”

 

There was a mumbled thank you.

 

“What was that?”

 

“I said get out of my attic or I’ll paint accurate renaissance penises on your faces while you sleep.”

 

They all stood and admired the paintings for a moment longer and then took pity on the sorry state their friend was in and one by one descended the ladder.

 

All except Enjolras.

 

Joly looked up from the bottom of the ladder and was about to call the blond down when Jehan giggled and shooed them all away with a smug smile.


	7. Chapter 7

Grantaire blew on the mug of soup to cool it and took a few tentative sips. He was hungry but his stomach still felt like there was some kind of war being waged in it and he really didn’t want to be sick again. His throat was already aching from the acid and bile he’d brought up earlier.

 

He ignored Enjolras perhaps if he ignored him he would go away. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about answering awkward questions or desperately wishing he didn’t exist and could go back to feeling miserable.

 

“Why do you hide your art?” Said Enjolras.

 

No such luck then.

 

“Why are you still here?” Retorted the artist.

 

“Grantaire, you’re so talented you shouldn’t shut it all away like this.”

 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “And how many of them are actually finished, Enjolras, tell me that.”

 

“Still, that doesn’t stop them from being beautiful.” He said, softly. He was greeted with silence. Grantaire wasn’t used to Enjolras speaking softly to him. He had no idea how to respond.

 

“You have books from every genre I can think of up here, annotated with you arguing with the authors, some of the argument’s I even recognise,” Behind his mug of soup grantaire blushed.  “Walls covered in winding thoughts and inspiration. Grantaire do you ever stop creating? I’m starting to believe that you don’t. I can’t believe I never knew about all of this.”

 

“It’s not important.”

 

“Yes. It is. This is who you are. Why do you hide so much of yourself from us, did you think we wouldn’t accept you? Did you think we would mock you?”

 

“No…but I thought you might ask some...awkward questions.”

 

Enjolras smiled softly. “I’ll admit, I was wondering.”

 

Grantaire groaned.

 

“R.”

 

“What?”

 

“Why are all the subjects in your paintings the same?”

 

“No.” There was absolutely no way he was dealing with this right now.

 

“Grantaire.”

 

“I am not dealing with this right now.” He was too ill and too sober for this sort of questioning.

 

“Why are they all young blond men?”

 

“No. Go away, I don’t have to talk to you when I’m ill.”

 

Enjolras chuckled a little. “Okay, I’ll go, but I’m not going to forget the things you’re capable of, and neither will the others.”

 

He descended the ladder, when just his head and shoulders remained above the trapdoor he paused for a moment. “Oh, and Grantaire?”

 

There was a put upon sigh. “What now?”

 

“If you wanted to paint me,” he said with a soft smile, “You could have just asked.” With that he left the artist and headed back down to his own room.

 

Grantaire sat in silence for a moment, shock freezing him in place. Eventually he turned to look at the ladder. “Did he just say?” He turned back and shook his head in confusion. “What just happened?”

  


Enjolras had hurried to his room as quickly as he could get away with while still looking nonchalant. He barely managed to dodge Courfeyrac’s questioning glance, thankfully Jehan distracted him with something, and shut the door firmly behind him.

 

He slid down the door, hands clasped over his mouth, cheeks flushed a vibrant pink. Had he actually just said that. He thought on the painting’s he had seen. Beautiful and intricate, layered with meaning and metaphor.

 

Then he thought about the ones he had barely glimpsed when their friends had moved the canvasses about. The men that resembled him so strongly sprawled out in much more intimate poses. He let the realisation of why they may have been painted, of the way Grantaire seemed to look at him, sink in.

 

Grantaire liked him, really liked him. In a way he had never dared contemplate was possible. He tried not to think of Grantaire too much. They argued so passionately and frequently with each other, and the artist was always snarking at him and he hadn’t dared. He hadn’t dared think that this was a possibility. Hadn’t dared think that deep blue eyes and a wicked smirk might be aimed at him for anything other than mockery. Hadn’t dared think that the laughter and smiles he shared with the others might be something that could be shared with him, maybe even more. Hadn’t let himself think about nimble artist’s fingers and strong arms and soft black curls even though his mind kept being desperately drawn back to them over and over. He’d shoved it down under a layer of derision and denial and hadn’t allowed himself to hope.

 

He hugged his knees to his chest and rested his head on them, smiling. A few stray curls slid over his face. He wasn’t sure how to move forward from this. Wasn’t sure how to act around Grantaire or what any of this really meant for either of them, but he had a feeling he might just enjoy finding out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not become a series.


End file.
